


Insolvent

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awkwardness, Gen, Guilt, Miscommunication, Not A Fix-It, Or Is It?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 16:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1865433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert attempts to compensate for his past actions against Valjean. The endeavour has proven rather challenging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insolvent

"Monsieur Fauchelevent," Javert said with a quick bow, hat in hand, the false name falling from his lips with practised ease.

"Monsieur Javert," Valjean replied, wearing a polite smile devoid of any real warmth. Madeleine's smile. It made the hairs on the back of Javert's neck stand up, but bringing it up hardly seemed fair. That Valjean greeted him with a smile at all was a privilege enough, one Javert doubted he had actually earned.

He had a rough idea of what Valjean would say before he even opened his mouth, and listened more to the uncertain tone than to the words themselves, inclining his head absent-mindedly at suitable intervals and shaking it at others: the day was Valjean's housekeeper's day off, Valjean would do what he could regardless, was Javert certain he didn't want anything to eat, something to drink at least, would he at least remove his coat this time...fortunately, by now Valjean no longer insisted either on food or on Javert relinquishing his coat; accepting charity was bad enough, making a spectacle of himself by shivering in front of a fire was another thing entirely. There had been no escape from the nightmarish cold lately, not even in the cosy sitting room of Rue de l'Homme Arme, no.7, but it was less the chill than Valjean's reaction that concerned Javert.

He allowed Valjean to store his hat away, then followed him down the corridor in perfect silence, gingerly taking the seat Valjean gestured at once they arrived in the sitting room. Valjean took the seat opposite of him, leaning slightly backwards, seemingly at ease. He couldn't betray Javert's eyes, however: his arms remained tense on the armrests.

"So," said Javert, then fell silent.

"So," Valjean agreed, lowering his gaze just enough to dodge Javert's eyes.

Despite all the time he had spent carefully scrutinising Valjean, Javert wasn't certain he understood the man any better than he had at the beginning. He had isolated individual pieces of the puzzle, certainly; the crinkles in the corners of Valjean's eyes when Cosette was mentioned, his propensity towards moments of sombre meditation, his seemingly endless supply of good will towards others, and the swiftness which he lowered his eyes when they met Javert's all shed some light on the mystery. Still, the whole picture remained in the shadows, and no matter how piercing Javert's gaze was, it couldn't penetrate through Valjean's skull.

Their meetings had become routine by now, as comforting as they were vexing; yet no amount of familiarity could make these first few moments any less awkward. They always left Javert stumbling for words, despairing for the right tone, allowed uneasiness to set in before he even began pursuing his quest once more. Perhaps, with enough practice the right words would come flowing by themselves, but until then, he would aim for politeness and try not to upset Valjean. The man had suffered unjustly for long enough, and the least Javert could do was mitigate the damage he himself caused.

_And how many others have suffered unjustly? How many others lived on hell on earth because of your actions? How many died because of you? How many times have you turned a blind eye to misery, pressed your hands on your ears to drown out their pleas of mercy, chosen to believe society is flawless and just, when the evidence was always there, right in front of your very eyes, you corrupt, depraved..._

No. He couldn't allow himself to think that, not while he still had a task to fulfil. He would pay for his sins in full after making amends to Valjean, the sins against him being the only sins Javert could possibly atone for in person. Until then, he would blind himself once more, this time with the sublime light emanating from the convict turned saint, that angel in the guise of a wretch.

"Javert?" The voice awoke him back to the present moment, and made him conscious of the way he was digging his nails into his thighs. He eased his grasp, but Valjean's brow remained furrowed.

Javert cleared his throat. "How is Mademoiselle Fauchelevent?" he asked, taking the easiest escape route from the suffocating silence and the worry welling in Valjean's eyes.

"She's well." For a brief moment, genuine warmth flickered in Valjean's eyes, a ray of sunlight before the clouds set in once more. "The date has been set. For the wedding, that is."

"Ah." Javert thought Mademoiselle Fauchelevent's chosen one to be a ninny, granted amnesty by the king or not, but there was no denying the young lady's devotion to him even based on second-hand accounts. "That is good news. I trust she's pleased?"

"Indeed." Valjean crossed his hands on his lap, an unusual, dark frown contracting his countenance. "She's been besides herself with joy ever since word came of Marius' full recovery. She's with him as we speak."

"Quite," Javert muttered, feverishly thinking of another topic that might chase away the shadows on Valjean's countenance.

"No snow yet," he eventually blurted. "Strange, that."

"What?" Valjean blinked, his thought clearly as far away from the sitting room as Javert's had been a moment ago. "Yes, quite odd."

"Your garden, will it...have you prepared?"

Valjean smiled faintly. Amusement at the clumsiness of Javert's words, perhaps? "Yes, the garden is quite ready for winter."

"Good." Javert then fell silent, having already exhausted all easy conversational topics. Should he inquire on what Valjean has read since their last meeting? How matter how earnestly he feigned interest, Valjean would soon notice he was boring Javert and start apologising. A kingdom for Valjean to never apologise. Should he question him further on his daughter? Before, mentioning Cosette had been the surest route to a somewhat relaxed conversation, but during recent times it brought as much sullenness to Valjean's expression as it did joy.

When Valjean made no indication of picking the lost thread himself, he allowed his eyes rest on the curve of Valjean's broad shoulder, wondering how to breach the real topic on his mind.

When he had returned to Valjean's doorstep on the sepulchral night after the insurrection, it had been for the sole purpose of rendering some service to the former convict. In his once black and white world, now rendered grey and singularly painful to his eyes, only one thing seemed clear: that he had done a great disservice to the man, the man who despite his sins had risen to such unfathomable heights; that if nothing else, he ought to seek some way to atone for his actions against Valjean, perform the one deed his shattered conscience still demanded of him.

If only he knew how to do so. He had told as much to Valjean, when the groggy and flabbergasted man had invited him in on that night, practically babbled about how there had to be something he could do, some way he could right the tremendous wrong, until Valjean had gently escorted him to the bedroom and told him to sleep. Too exhausted to argue for long, he had eventually complied. Wherever Valjean had slept that night, he had never discovered. Another additional charge to his substantial debt.

He had brought up the topic again in the morning, but when faced with Valjean's exaggerated concern over his well-being ( _"Are you in pain? Show me your wrists. When did you last eat?"_ ) he hadn't been able to do anything but laugh out of sheer exasperation. He had barely been able to stop when Valjean told him he would gladly follow him to the police station after saying his goodbyes. To think Valjean thought he would arrest him after all that had happened, and still offered him breakfast! Even in a world that no longer made sense, Valjean was singularly incomprehensible.

_The world never made sense, you just pretended it did out of cowardice. There is no foothold, there is nothing but the abyss—_

Eventually, he had explained to Valjean that he had no intention of arresting his benefactor and that he could rest quite at ease. That much Valjean had at length accepted, but Javert's subsequent offer to do anything he could to aid Valjean was met with abject confusion. Apparently, there was nothing that Valjean desired. Moreover, Javert had to admit his proposal was weak in the first place: after all, he could do nothing to help ensure Valjean's liberty beyond keeping mum, and even if he had been capable of offering monetary aid, Valjean had enough wealth to last for a lifetime. What could he possibly offer?

Companionship, perhaps? The only thing Valjean had eventually requested, with downcast eyes and furtive glances at Javert's countenance, was that Javert would visit occasionally. Why, Javert wasn't certain. He was no conversationalist, and even if he had been, surely Valjean had better options to choose from than his former tormentor? It was hard to imagine him deriving much pleasure from these halting conversations. And despite all that, at the end of each meeting Valjean would smile and wish Javert the best until next time. And so Javert returned twice a month, with the regularity of clockwork, and would continue to do so until he found a real way to pay at least an increment of his debt.

There had to be something else Javert could do, something that would actually be for the good of Valjean, something that would Javert's conscience at ease enough to finally resign from God, and until he discovered what it was, he wouldn't fade. His zeal had never led him down before, and it wouldn't let him down here. He wouldn't allow it.

If only he could get a clear-cut answer. Then again, he had yet to discover a proper way to ask Valjean, either: his most candid endeavours had all proved fruitless, and attempting to discern Valjean's desires by staring at his countenance were yet to yield any significant results. Valjean himself chose to question nothing: he had made some haphazard attempts at discovering Javert's motivations, but he hadn't known what to ask any more than Javert knew how to answer.

"Are you sure you are well?" Javert nearly sighed, as relieved as he was that Valjean had finally spoken. There it was again, that infernal concern. How could Javert make him understand Valjean's well-being was the focus here, if he couldn't find the proper words to do so?

 "I already told you I am." He was well enough, and would remain so for as long as necessary. There was no need for further details, least of all ones that might cause Valjean unwarranted worry.

Valjean gave him a rather pointed look which soon melted into a look of apprehension. How Javert had learned to detest that look. "You have grown pale. And even now, you're shivering. If there's anything I can do—"

"I am fine," Javert snapped, then seeing the way Valjean began to withdraw into himself without moving, continued with a slightly lower tone. "If there's anyone in this room you ought to be concerned for, it's yourself. Don't think I haven't noticed how pale you've grown yourself." It wasn't just the pallor of Valjean's skin, either: the lines beneath his eyes had grown more numerous, his eyes dimmer, the dark shadows circling them more prominent. "When did you last sleep properly?"

Valjean mumbled something barely comprehensible in response, some rot about his old age catching up to him, all wrapped up with an apologetic smile. Involuntarily, Javert's eyes narrowed. Perhaps there was a grain of truth to Valjean's claim, but hadn't he only that summer looked closer to Javert's age than his own? No, it was evident there was more to Valjean's misery than he wished to let on, and Javert already had an inkling of what it might be.

"The wedding, then," he said abruptly, louder than he had intended. "When will it be?"

"The sixteenth of February." And there, sure enough, was once more the furrowed brow, the strange gleam in his eye. Glad though he was to prove his theory correct, Javert now acutely wished he could chase the barely concealed pained grimace far away.

"More than two months to go," he said helplessly.

"That is right." Valjean's outer calm returned, and he made a motion of half rising from his armchair. "Would you like some coffee?"

Javert snorted without thinking and shook his head. "Such luxury."

Valjean lowered his gaze as if in defeat and slunk back down, and immediately Javert realised his mistake. Even if he himself neither desired nor deserved coffee, a hot beverage might certainly aid Valjean's constitution. Perhaps he ought to claim he had changed his mind?

"I would like some tea," he blurted. Valjean raised his gaze, and after a moment of perplexity, a smile that didn't reach his eyes dawned on his face. "Provided you have some as well."

Valjean rose and rubbed his hands together. "Very well. I should be able to manage that, at least." His lips curled further upwards. Genuine emotion or not, Javert wasn't sure.

Valjean disappeared into the corridor, and Javert was torn between following him and staying put. Valjean had made no indication of wanting him to accompany him to the kitchen, but at the same time the thought of waiting here alone, in the suffocating silence of Valjean's hospitality, without the man himself in his sight to keep his thoughts grounded, made his skin crawl. He stood up from his chair and paced across the room several times, then caved in and stalked out and down towards the kitchen.

When he arrived, Valjean had finished boiling the water and was in the process of preparing the tea. Javert leaned into the doorpost, not daring to encroach the silence while Valjean had his back turned and scalding water in hands. His hands handled the crockery with such careful gentleness; by now, his gracefulness no surprise to Javert, yet by sheer contrast seeing Valjean engaged in such a minute task reminded him of the hard labour of Toulon, and the way it had made those same muscles, less pronounced now but still prominent and firm, bulge under the coarse fabric of the prison uniform.

Javert averted his eyes as shame coiled up from the depths of his mind and constricted his thoughts. To think that even now, Valjean was the one serving Javert tea and not the other way around, as if he owed Javert something, as if it was Valjean who had committed heinous sins and needed to be punished.

"Javert?"

Javert looked up to see Valjean staring at him, one hand on the tea container, the other hanging by his side, concern written all over his face. Javert immediately rearranged his own expression, into what he hoped signified calm. "Yes?"

Valjean shook his head and turned away. He closed the lid of the tea container. "Why do you keep returning here if it causes you suffering?"

Javert folded his arms. "I'm in your debt. And it doesn't."

"Your expression tells me otherwise." Valjean sighed, a short miserable sound that Javert had come to loathe as much as Valjean's apologies. He busied himself with the tea again, his back turned to Javert.

"It is not suffering." Doing one's duty was never suffering. Valjean made no response.

"There is no debt, " he said suddenly, so quietly it took Javert a moment to register the words. "I've already told you so. You're free to go if you so desire."

Javert very nearly smiled. Free, indeed. Could Valjean really not see the enormity of his debt, of his sin? Did he really think he could absolve Javert with a few words and a pained smile? Mercy was Valjean's lifeblood, perhaps, but in this matter, justice would reign, even if it was the new, perplexing justice that came from the abyss above and brought terror rather than comfort in its wake.

"Yes, you have already told me so," he replied.

Finally Valjean turned to face him, wearing a deep frown. "I'm not sure you actually understand what I mean."

"I understand your meaning quite well." The intent behind Valjean's words was simple enough to decipher: kindness. He was offering kindness for hatred, turning the other cheek, making sacrifices and demanding nothing even after saving Javert's life.

The frown eased slightly, but did not disappear. "If you are certain." He raised the teapot onto a small tray. Javert couldn't help noticing that his hands were shaking. Surely not from the weight of the thing; that would have been ludicrous even for a much weaker man.

Valjean reached out onto the shelves and picked up a saucer holding a teacup. By now, his hands were quivering with such intensity the porcelain was sure a tumble on the floor any moment now.

"Watch out." Instinctively, Javert grabbed Valjean's wrist to secure the teacup while he took hold of the rim of the saucer with his other hand, thumb upwards.

Valjean froze at the touch. Javert realised his error only when he looked up and saw Valjean's eyes were as wide as a cornered animal's.

It was no wonder Valjean reacted badly to his touch. Certainly he needed no reminder of their past as convict and guard, let alone the hand of said guard curling around his wrist.

Javert was at a loss. He ought to let go, immediately, but then the teacup might fall. He tugged at the saucer, as gently as he could, and exhaled in relief as Valjean's hold of it eased enough for Javert to snatch the saucer, teacup and all, and place it back on the table.

Before Javert could take the next step, however, Valjean had already taken hold of Javert's wrist and dislodged his hand from his person, gently but determinedly.

Javert opened his mouth, an uncertain apology already on his lips, when he realised Valjean was still holding onto his wrist, looking at the hand with a peculiar expression. The hold was light, and Javert was certain he could yank his hand free if he so wished, but he remained immobile, trying to puzzle out the mystery of Valjean's expression.

As soon as Javert thought that, Valjean looked up and gave a start. He dropped Javert's wrist and withdrew, face reddening.

"I- apologise," he muttered, flexing and unflexing his hands, gaze focused somewhere near Javert's ear.

Javert frowned. "There is no need to apologise. If anything, I should take the blame for grabbing you. It was just the teacup-"

"No, you did the right thing." The crimson flush on Valjean's cheeks spread to his ears. "I shouldn't have-"

"It's fine," Javert interrupted firmly, though he felt more uncertain than ever. Why was Valjean's face so red? Was he really that upset? He had every right to be, certainly, with a past such as theirs, but even then Javert wouldn't have thought...

A thought crossed his mind, one that had hovered by the edges of his consciousness since that fateful night in June, but only now chose to make itself prominent.

_You know perfectly well why he is in shock, you presumptuous worm. You have forgotten your place, forgotten who you are. He thinks it a mercy to be kind to you, but you know the truth: he can barely stand the sight of you, yet alone your touch. It isn't the wedding that is taking its toll on him, it's you. You are the source of your saviour's misery._

Javert barely heard Valjean's further apologies as he wrestled with the new revelation. How could it only now occur to him that the greatest service he could do to Valjean was to remove himself entirely from his life? He had been presumptuous in assuming he could do anything for Valjean. How could he even begin repaying his debt when his mere presence made the man shiver? The old wounds ran too deep; Valjean was merely too saintly and polite to tell Javert how much his presence vexed him. That must have been the real reason for dismissing the debt, as well: it was the least painful way Valjean could think of to remove Javert from his presence. Javert had been a fool to disregard the possibility for so long.

The realisation filled him with an odd clarity. A new light illuminated the chaotic abyss his world had opened up into, in which he had desperately sought a foothold, a clear-cut path such as the one he had followed his entire life. There was indeed a path he could follow, one that would simultaneously bring perhaps not pleasure, but at very least relief to Valjean, and free Javert from beneath the burgeoning weight of frightful thoughts constantly attempting to flood his consciousness. A path he had wilfully ignored for the past six months, a path he had been too much of a coward to cast his eyes on. Yet another mistake to add to a lifetime comprising of nothing but errors.

Enough with comforting blindfolds. He would no longer avert his eyes from the light of truth, and if it should burn him to ashes where he stood, all would be well.

"Javert?"

He bowed deeply and turned to leave. "I apologise for having taken so much of your time."

"You have only just arrived." There was genuine perplexity to Valjean's words, Javert was almost sure of it. He shook his head.

"I must leave, regardless," and it really was a _must_ ; the mere thought of continuing this charade any longer, selfishly indulging himself with the sorry excuse that was appeasing his conscience at Valjean's expense, made him want to scratch his eyes out. He plunged his hand in the pocket of his coat, hoping against hope to find errant coins despite knowing all too well the pocket was empty. "I'm sorry about the expense. With the tea." The debt only kept growing regardless of his actions. He would be crushed, without a shred of doubt, but that too was well. He only had one thing to offer in compensation, and while it wouldn't be enough (what value did his life have?), at least he would sink no further.

Valjean followed him as he retreated towards the front door, pausing only to retrieve his hat.

"I did not mean to offend you," Valjean continued, with a note almost akin to panic. Or perhaps it was something else entirely. After failing to judge the situation correctly over and over again, Javert could no longer judge himself to understand Valjean's tone of voice either.

"You have done nothing wrong," he said briskly. "You are not responsible. You never have to answer for my actions." He pushed his hat as far down as his brow allowed, then turned on his heels and bowed once more. "You have been kind, nothing more."

"Javert, what-" But Javert no longer listened, and was out through the door before Valjean finished his sentence. Valjean need not expend a single ounce more of effort on his behalf. He had already burdened the man beyond what anyone deserved.

Once outside, Javert resisted the urge to take a deep breath, and instead immediately set out towards his lodgings. Some minor issues remained to be sorted out, trifles really, but ones he felt regardless deserved his full attention. A delay of a few hours, perhaps. Barely worth mentioning next to the six months he had pretended he still needed, nothing next to the lifetime he had stolen from those more deserving.

As he navigated the cold streets of Paris, his stride as long and sure as ever, the first snow of the winter finally fell, gently enveloping the city in a white shroud that would vanish by sunset.


End file.
